More Than Just Hunger Pains
by GoldenJuiceBox
Summary: Alfred has had enough of the nations making fun of his weight...so he takes matters into his new hands. WARNINGS: Yaoi, eating disorder. Don't like, don't read. Breaking the Chain will be updated closely to this one.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: HIIIIIIIIIIIII! So. It turns out I'm not dead…just in a coma. So my body is magically writing this fic that ironically came to me at lunch. Beautiful, isn't that? I guess I should put the trigger warning. Here it is: eating disorder, gays, angst, bla bla bla the usual. Also, I am getting back to Breaking The Chain as soon as this chapter is published. My summer was much busier than I had planned, and, well, let's just say I procrastinate a bit. So have this as an appetizer then we can all have some GerIta for the main course! And also, grazie StarFormerAdira, you are quite the lovely beta for putting up with me and my procrastination. And for feeding me fics. **

He ran. He ran as far as he could, but sadly, this was only to the end of his driveway. Ever since the other nations started making fun of his eating habits, Alfred had been trying to lose weight. By all means necessary. And he did. As he was making his way inside, he thought about how everything started.

_"Dear God, Alfred! How many burgers have you eaten?" England shouted, finally showing irritation at his former colony who had popped yet another burger into his mouth. _

_ "Six," America said through a full mouth. _

_ "Six? It's only the first half of the bloody meeting! Are you mad?" _

_ "Clearly," Alfred said dejectedly as he set down his burger. England rolled his eyes as France started snickering at America's sulking. _

_ "Amerique, zat burger is lonely now, non? You should really finish it." _

_ "I'm not hungry…"_

_ "Well, isn't that a damn miracle," England muttered under his breath. But America heard. And the continuous jabs about his excessive eating at every meeting just motivated him more to lose weight. _

America went into the bathroom when he got inside to begin his post-exercise routine. He stripped down to his boxers and stared in the mirror. His hair was dull. His skin was pale. But worst of all, his baby blue eyes no longer had that child-like whimsy to them. They were only windows to whatever dark thoughts America was having that day.

He reached down and pinched the tight skin on his belly as his stomach growled. All he saw, and all he felt, was the no longer remaining fat that the others would jeer at. Every time he thought about it, he felt ashamed. Not ashamed at how much he had lost, but ashamed at how he had gotten so big. America stepped on the scale. 113 pounds. When he started trying to lose weight, he was at 216. He had made progress, but not enough. It would never be enough. Not until he completely vanished, and there was nothing there for the others to laugh at.

Not even England.

Especially England.

America had let England down. He had tried so hard to raise America properly to feed him right, to go and play with him every day, but then America decided that he wanted to be independent. And like the spoiled child he was, he got independence. But for Alfred, all freedom meant was more responsibilities. He hardly knew how to take care of himself, much less a nation!

Thus, he ended up here. At the bottom of a dark hole, with walls far too smooth to even attempt to scale. Not that he would be able to. Ever since he tightened his diet to a vegetable every other day, and a bottle of water every day, his strength had been diminishing. The economy wasn't helping either. Alfred's days of swinging around ox were long gone. Some days he found that he couldn't get out of bed. And if he tried, he would simply collapse on the floor. Too exhausted to get back up, he would just pull down whatever bedding he could and sleep on the floor until he had enough energy to make it to the kitchen.

Alfred finished silently criticizing himself and put his clothes back on. He made his way to the kitchen, occasionally leaning on walls for support. When he got there, he opened the fridge and grabbed out a short piece of celery. Today was an eating day. He hated them.

He filled a glass of water and leant against the counter, gnawing on his celery stick. Eventually, he got bored of choking down the bland food and just threw it out.

As Alfred was making his way to lie down on the couch, he thought he had heard the phone ring. Couldn't have, though. Who would be calling him?

What he didn't hear when he went to sleep was the voicemail that came after the call.

_"Alfred, poppet, I'm coming over today. No one has heard from you in over a month; not even Canada! You've missed meetings, too. Your phone seems to be in order, but I'm coming over to make sure you're not dead. Be there in an hour."_

Had Alfred been awake, he could have answered the phone, or called the Englishman back and told him an excuse about why he couldn't come over. The house was a mess. He had explosive diarrhea. There's a hurricane in New York today. Something! But no, Alfred was once again, in an almost blissful state.

He didn't dream, though. Not anymore. And if he did, it was a nightmare.

England pulled into America's driveway, surprised not to see the nation's flashy sports car out of the garage for once. Perhaps he wasn't home? No…there were lights on. Alfred was probably just acting like a child and making it look like he wasn't home so that England would go away. That wouldn't work. England strolled up to the door and knocked a few times, to no answer. He tried the knob, to find it unlocked. So America was home, which led to his next question: where was he?

"Alfred! Where are you? I can tell you're home. I hope you realize this is quite chi-" England froze as he entered the living room. If he didn't see the steady rise and fall of his chest, he would have sworn Alfred was dead. England rushed over to America and shook him awake.

Alfred blinked away sleep and looked around to see England. His eyes widened in shock.

"Alfred, love, what's happened? What have you done to yourself?" England was terribly concerned with the state his ex-colony was in. Yes, he teased him like he was a schoolboy and America was the object of his affection, which was exactly the case, but England truly did care for him.

"I dieted," Alfred replied flatly, not looking England in the eye.

"Bloody hell, Alfred! This isn't dieting! This is starving yourself!"

"I'm sorry." Alfred just stared at the floor, hoping this was just one of those nightmares where someone finds out and eventually he does starve himself into disappearance.

"F-for what? You have absolutely nothing to apologize for!" England's mind was reeling. How could Alfred possibly be apologizing for this?

"Yes, I do. I never listened to anyone and my weight had gone too far. Now I'm trying to fix it."

England was taken aback by this. Alfred had done this over the senseless teasing from the other nations, including England, about his weight? A wave of guilt slammed into England's chest. He should have seen the signs. He should have seen this coming. Alfred _had _been more distant at meetings, before disappearing altogether. He _had_ stopped taking burgers to meetings. Hell, England couldn't remember the last time he had seen America eat a bur – yes, he could. It was the day he outright snapped at him.

"Alfred, if anything, we should be the ones apologizing. I should. And I truly am sorry. I didn't notice we were causing you so much emotional distress…and I should have. But, on another hand, have you eaten at all today? When was the last time you ate?"

"Earlier today." England's apology had seemed sincere, but America didn't feel he could trust anyone right now.

"What did you eat?" England was hoping for all it was worth Alfred would respond with burgers, or any type of junk food.

"…some celery."

"That's not a meal! Come now, let's fix you something to eat." England helped America up, after seeing him struggle with the task, and settled him into a kitchen chair.

"Now, let's see if you have something we can put together," England said as he walked to the fridge. When he opened it, his stomach fell to the floor. All that was in the fridge was water bottles and two containers of cut up celery sticks, each stick about as long as a pencil. "Alfred, is this all of the food you have?"

"There might be some peanut butter and olive oil in the cupboard."

"Alright, so you have celery and condiments. No problem. I'll run to the store and get some food. Don't move." England went to put on his jacket and left.

Alfred couldn't move if he wanted to. This had turned into one of those days.

When England got in his car, he smacked his forehead on the steering wheel. How had they let this happen? How had _he _let this happen? They should have tried to contact Alfred sooner. He never missed meetings. He never shut up at them. He was always bothering some nation about some pointless discovery he had made that day. He was always _happy_. Or so they thought. But Alfred couldn't have been happy. Not with all of the constant talk about his weight. And he really wasn't that big either. The immature nations just needed something to give them a laugh. And laugh they did. But now, England was ready to cry.

He pulled himself out of his sulking and started the car. He had to blink back tears as he saw Alfred still in the kitchen chair, his head resting on the table. As England drove to the store, his mind kept wandering to America. _When did this start? Was he doing this before he shut himself off from us? Is he doing…other things as well? _England tossed that thought away, simply because he didn't want to think of America hurting that bad.

England grabbed a shopping cart, knowing that this wasn't going to be the only meal America had during his (chances are) long stay. England refused to leave Alfred's side until he was better. He would swear on his pride. And that was quite the promise for the gentleman.

England went to the baking aisle and got the ingredients for scones. He also headed to the back of the store to get some milk along with some vegetables and meat. He got some hamburger ingredients as well, in high hopes that when Alfred was back to…well…Alfred, he would go back to inhaling hamburgers.

As England was checking out, he saw the headlines of a few of the tabloids. The economy in America was as bad as he had suspected. Surely America knew this was affecting his people as well? No…he probably didn't. Even in his down times, he wouldn't do something that unheroic.

England let himself in with the groceries when he got back to America's house. America had indeed, from the looks of it, stayed put. This only saddened England further because he knew the only reason America wouldn't have moved was if he didn't have the strength to do so.

"Alfred, I'm back with some groceries," Arthur said as he put away the food, trying to get the younger nation's attention.

"Awesome."

"Do sandwiches sound alright?"

"Yup," came the quiet reply. America must have slept at the table while the Englishman was gone, for he seemed a bit more alert.

England fixed America a ham sandwich and set it down for him. America slowly lifted it and got himself to take a bite. This slow process continued until he was about a third through the sandwich.

Faster than either of the two nations at the table thought he was capable of, America got up and ran to the bathroom. England quickly followed and saw America kneeling in front of the toilet. England just held back America's hair as he vomited. When America was finished and had flushed, England pulled him into a hug.

"Not what you wanted?" England asked.

"No…it was good, I'm just not used to eating that much. I'm sorry…"

"Again, America, you don't have to apologize about this. Considering how much you've been eating, your body needs to get used to meals again. Come now, let's get you into bed. You're awfully cold."

America nodded in agreement and let England help him up. The two walked up to America's bedroom, England practically carrying the light American up the stairs. England helped America into bed and pulled the covers over him.

"Arthur?" America said, right as England was about to head downstairs.

"Yes?"

"Thank you," America said in a small voice. England would never truly know how much this meant to him.

"You're welcome."

When England got downstairs, he located his suitcase and brought it to the guest bedroom he knew all too well from those horror movie-filled nights Alfred insisted upon. England just couldn't find the entertainment in eating mounds of junk food while watching overly gory horror movies in the middle of the night.

Right now, England would do anything to see that America again; including sit through every single one of those movies twice…at McDonald's. But luckily, doing that wouldn't fix this problem so that was out the window. What he did need to do, was be here to support America. And that is exactly what he was going to do.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hi. How are you today? I'm quite good. Would you like some awesome almost filler chapter? Awesome. This intended one shot is turning into a multi-chapter before my eyes. So I'll work on this and Breaking The Chain - wait for it - AT THE SAME TIME. Oh yes. Can I handle it? Until snowboarding season. So, enjoy this chapter and I shall hopefully have another one for you pretties towards the end of the week~**

As England was sending an email to his boss about the situation and how he wouldn't be back for a while, he heard a thud. He got up and went to America's room to find the fragile nation on the floor.

"Alfred!"

"Oh. Hey," Alfred said as England assisted him in sitting up.

"What happened?"

"Well, today's turned out to be a not standing day."

"Not a standing day? What do you mean?"

"Some days I really don't have the strength to stand up when I get out of bed."

England felt a pang of guilt in this chest. Did this happen often? Did America just lie on the ground some days because he didn't call anyone to help him? Because he didn't think anyone would?

"Well, let's get you back into bed, then." England helped America out of the tangle of blankets and lifted him back into bed. He pulled the blankets back over him.

"Alfred, if you ever wish to get up, just call me and I'll help you. Alright?"

Alfred just nodded. He watched England leave the room. Once he heard the Englishman's footsteps fade away, he sat up, carefully and quietly. He slowly moved over to the wall, and used it as his support on the way to the bathroom.

Alfred leant on the sink as he opened the medicine cabinet and started taking out and looking at every container. He threw them into the bathtub until he found the bottle he was looking for: sleeping pills.

He hadn't been sleeping well lately, so he figured if he took more pills, he would sleep better. That was the logic that motivated Alfred to remove the child-proof cap (that was surprisingly challenging) and to pour about seven of the pills into his hand. That's when he heard England stomping down the hall.

He heard the racket - he wasn't a fool. The git was out of bed! But what was all of the noise coming from? It sounded like America was throwing things. He saw the bathroom light on when he entered America's bedroom.

"Goddammit, Alfred! Why are you out of bed, and - WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?" England shouted. He took the pills from America's hand and threw them in the trash bin before the boy could cause any damage with them.

"I was trying to get more sleep."

"Taking a handful of sleeping pills will not help you sleep better! It will only put you in a coma!"

"That would be nice."

"Alright, clearly I can't leave you unsupervised. Let's go downstairs and you will at least rest on the couch while I make some tea." England supported America, remembering what the young nation said about it being a not standing day. He really couldn't support himself at all. It was a miracle he had made it to the bathroom.

England just carried America down the stairs to make it easier on both of them - he didn't weight much of anything. He was as light - if not lighter – than Italy. He set America down on the couch and, after ordering him to stay put, headed to the kitchen.

He looked for the box of Earl Grey he had stashed on top of the fridge - it was there! Now was the tea pot still there…yes! England's mood was slightly boosted as he filled the pot with water and set it on the stove to boil. England went and sat in the living room as he waited for the water to boil and so he could keep an eye on America. America had managed to fall asleep but he still looked troubled.

In all honesty, England hardly knew how to handle an eating disorder. He'd never had one or been around someone with one until now. He had to ask someone before he ended up hurting Alfred more than he already had.

England could only think of one nation he could call with this: France. As much as the two bickered, they didn't really hate each other. They had actually helped each other out a number of times over the years. And he was willing to do anything for Alfred. He pulled out his phone and dialed the Frenchman's number.

"Angleterre? You're not drunk again, are you?"

"No, you twat! I'm at Alfred's."

"Oh, he's alive is he? Buried alive in burger wrappers I suppose."

"He's lighter than Italy," England solemnly informed France.

"What? Is he alright? Mon ami…how did zat happen?" France was concerned, and for once, showing his serious side.

"We took it too far. He can hardly stand anymore. And…I…need your help with this. I don't know how to handle this and two heads would be better than one; he already tried taking 7 sleeping pills at once today."

"Oui. I shall be over in a bit. I remember when Matthew went through an eating disorder…it was horrible."

"Matthew had an eating disorder?" This was news to England. How didn't he know?

"Oui…it was years back. He was very quiet about it and asked me to do the same. I believe Alfred knows as well."

"I see. Well, hurry over. I'd better get the tea off of the stove. Good bye."

"Au revoir~"

England hung up and walked into the kitchen to pour himself some water and add the tea. He only had time to make instant tea right now.

Arthur sat back down with his tea and watched Alfred. It was all he could do for now - watch and wait.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: *Feel free to skip this author's note if they're not your thing* I….I'm updating. Again. I feel great. Fellow [procrastinating] authors out there, I'm sure you know how it feels to update. Feels grand. *Bounce*. *Bouncebounce*. You seen the new episodes of Hetalia? AWESOME. The new animation is absolutely lovely. I wonder if there will be a new episode screening this weekend. I'm going to Anime Con. I'm cosplaying as Italy and maybe Rima (Vampire Knight). I love this keyboard. It makes me happy. And I found the start of a Harry Potter fic in the depths of my fanfiction binder. I basically left myself a few ideas and demands, but I'm thinking of going from that idea and writing about something I'd be better at writing. But then again I don't want to seem like I'm copying other authors. I'm pretty confused on this. Any writers or readers that can give input on that, fantastic. I know HP fics are pretty repetitive (but I guess there's a reason…clearly someone likes it). I'm thinking of making my tumblr go into use. Thoughts? **

Arthur was sipping at his now cold tea when the doorbell rang. He glanced to Alfred then set his cup down and hurried to the door. France was there.

"Come in…the place isn't messy for once."

"Ah, he truly is ill, I see." France tried to lighten the mood. England couldn't help but snicker as America usually made it seem like his mission to keep his house difficult to maneuver without a spaceship.

"He's in here-he's sleeping now," Arthur said as he led Francis to the living room.

"Oh mon cher…this is horrible. I can't believe it is this bad!" Francis truly felt horrible for the American-even Matthew hadn't gotten this bad (though he had shown signs early on. And Francis had bothered to notice his well-being).

"Yes…it is quite bad. I had to leave him in the kitchen at the table for a tad while I went shopping and he hadn't moved a bit." Arthur ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation-had he not seen it himself, he would have never believed Alfred to be in this condition.

"Thank you for calling me over. It was wise of you. Eating disorders are not to be taken lightly, nor handled improperly. He can also relapse which needs to be watched as well."

"Yes, well, I can put my big trousers on when a life is at stake-especially that of a nation…of my colony…" Arthur lost it. He fell, crying. Francis held him, no matter how awkward the position was. He knew how much it hurt to see someone you love shaking hands with Death. It nearly killed him when he heard Matthew retching in the bathroom and saw him pouring his favorite syrup down the drain. The pain Arthur must be feeling at seeing Alfred as light as he was as a child, but no longer smiling, must be horrific.

Arthur composed himself and stood up.

"Thank you, France. You could stay in the other guest bedroom-I hardly think Alfred would mind right now."

When Francis was settled in, the two nations started on dinner. Alfred still wasn't awake to protest, so they made a light chicken soup. Arthur was sent to the living room for Alfred duty after he managed to set the broth on fire. His cooking skills still needed some refining.

What was that smell? Is that…chicken? Why does his house smell like food? What the hell is going on? He couldn't eat-he had already eaten today! Alfred sat bolt upright, panicking, quickly grabbing Arthur's attention.

"Alfred! What's wrong?" Arthur was frightened. Alfred went from sleeping peacefully to an all-out panic. It didn't take much effort to hold the frantic country back-he was weakened.

"There's-I-there's food! Why do I smell food!?"

"Calm down, Francis is just making us soup for dinner."

"Oh. Good."

"You're eating with us."

"No! I already ate twice today!"

"Would you rather I go get you something from McDonalds?" Arthur asked this, thinking Alfred wouldn't want French cuisine at the moment, but something more familiar.

"NO!" Alfred practically screamed.

Francis heard the commotion and entered the living room. He walked in on a frantic looking Alfred and Arthur looked like he had just seen Russia call for world peace.

"…Alfred, mon ami, what is wrong?" Francis could ignore the dumbfounded Englishman for now.

"He's trying to make me eat! I already had part of a sandwich today. I have to run that much more tomorrow!"

"Alfred! You vomited up what part of that sandwich you _did_ eat. Please…I can't stand to see you like this."

"Alfred, if you do not eat tonight, then you may not go running in the morning," Francis offered. It wasn't the best route, but Alfred deserved some dignity and they had to take baby steps.

"F-fine. I'll eat tonight. You're not stopping me from my running."

"Have it your way then. And you're not just sipping the broth. You're eating a little bit of meat too," Arthur said. Alfred groaned in complaint. This was clearly going to be difficult, but they had no choice.

**A/N: My dears, I do apologize for the extremely short chapter. I hope I have more soon. Trying to get back into fic mode. Maybe my other fics will quench your thirst? **

**StarFormerAdira: *slurp slurp***


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